


this town of glass and ice

by crimsonxflowers



Series: there's a hole in my soul (can you fill it?) [4]
Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Gen, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 05:57:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11247717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonxflowers/pseuds/crimsonxflowers
Summary: “Mr. Rothstein?” Meyer calls after him, and Rothstein pauses halfway down the temple’s steps. Rothstein’s expression is placid when he meets Meyer’s eyes, but he doesn’t miss the brief quirk of Rothstein’s eyebrow.“Something I can do for you, young man?” Rothstein asks, tone as smoothed over as his expression, though his daemon, seated primly at his side, is either intrigued or annoyed judging by the way her tail flicks behind her.“I wanted to introduce myself. Meyer Lansky,” he says, and stands up just a little bit straighter. “We share some business interests.”And that does get a lift of an eyebrow, but Rothstein reaches forward and clasps Meyer’s hand anyway. “What business would that be, Mr. Lansky?”





	this town of glass and ice

**Author's Note:**

> in which meyer makes a business connection and also a vaguely flirty/pining-filled poker game occurs.
> 
> list of daemons (names and species) are down in the endnotes, if you want the mental image before you read! i have [a whole tag for this au](http://meyerlansky.tumblr.com/tagged/daemon+au) over on my tumblr, as well as a writeup explaining the basics of how daemons work [here](http://meyerlansky.tumblr.com/post/127967825056/what-are-uhmdaemons-i-discovered-the-daemon), though fair warning that the overall tag contains daemon spoilers for characters who haven't been [and may never be] introduced at the point that this fic takes place, so caveat lector etc

Meyer’s not expecting anything from this bar mitzvah but a morning of boredom, but his father brought him and Jake along, so there’s not really anything to be done about it now.

His assessment of the morning changes, though, when he and Atarah catch sight of someone’s clouded leopard daemon weaving through the crowd. It’s not a particularly _common_ daemon to have, but how likely is it that Arnold Rothstein is at some Lower East Side kid’s bar mitzvah? Meyer tries to ignore it, but Atarah won’t leave it alone, and once the reading’s done and congratulations are doled out all around, she hounds him into looking around, “just for a minute or two, and if it’s not them, at least we didn’t miss out on an opportunity,” she says petulantly.

Meyer can’t really argue with that.

Especially not when she turns out to be right. Rothstein’s surrounded by a throng of men his age, though, and they can’t risk Pa or Inessa catching them talking to a known criminal. Meyer mills around for a bit, makes sure Jake is talking to some of his classmates and tries to exchange pleasantries with most of the people in attendance. But Atarah’s distracted to the point of rudeness keeping an eye on Rothstein and his daemon—something that, thankfully, no one comments on.

It’s a stroke of luck that no one’s talking to either of them when Atarah digs her claws into Meyer’s shoulder, hard enough that he flinches as they hit skin. “Meyer, they’re leaving, we need to talk to them now,” Atarah says against his ear, obviously distressed at the thought of missing their chance. Meyer glances over his shoulder, scanning the crowd for his father. He and Inessa are talking to someone across the room, not paying them any attention, so Atarah slides off his shoulder and into his arms so they can push through the crowd of people, following Rothstein through the door of the synagogue.

“Mr. Rothstein?” Meyer calls after him, and Rothstein pauses halfway down the temple’s steps, waving his hand briefly to a burly man with a squirrel daemon holding a car door open for him. Rothstein’s expression is placid when he meets Meyer’s eyes, but he doesn’t miss the brief quirk of Rothstein’s eyebrow.

“Something I can do for you, young man?” Rothstein asks, tone as smoothed over as his expression, though his daemon, seated primly at his side, is either intrigued or annoyed judging by the way her tail flicks behind her. Meyer shakes his head, and Atarah jumps from his arms as he sticks his hand out, palm up.

“I wanted to introduce myself. Meyer Lansky,” he says, and stands up just a little bit straighter. “We share some business interests.”

And that _does_ get a lift of an eyebrow, but Rothstein reaches forward and clasps Meyer’s hand anyway. “What business would that be, Mr. Lansky?” He tilts his head forward, looking back towards the synagogue doors. “Not your father’s, I presume.”

They have to fight not to bristle at that, whether the slight against Meyer’s choices, or Max’s, is real or perceived. Meyer chooses his next words carefully, fully aware that this may be dangerous ground they’re treading. “My father does what he believes he has to. As do I,” he says firmly, meeting Rothstein’s faintly amused gaze directly. “As for the business itself, currently we specialize in various gaming venues, and the necessary components of that business, protection included. My associates and I are primarily local at the moment, though we’re looking to expand into more reputable arenas.”

Rothstein hums, amusement mingled with speculation on his face. “And how many of these ‘associates’ are involved in this venture of yours?”

“Two direct partners, a third with whom we split costs and pool profits but who operates mostly independently in a different part of the city, and about a dozen junior associates at the moment,” Meyer says, clasping his hands behind his back as he speaks. “Myself and my partners run our games ourselves, with our associates occupying other roles.” He’s sure Rothstein knows what’s involved in running a street craps game—lookouts, shills, muscle, and some runners when they’re operating simultaneous games across a few blocks—so he leaves his explanation there for now.

The amusement is all but vanished now, and Rothstein’s daemon inclines her head at the two of them, feline gaze assessing. “It sounds like quite the operation, Mr. Lansky,” Rothstein says, expression as sharp as his daemon’s.

“I work with what I have, Mr. Rothstein. As I said, we’re looking to expand, both on the Lower East Side and into other neighborhoods. We run a clean game and haven’t had any complaints about conduct, as far as I’m aware,” Meyer finishes, trying not to let Rothstein’s scrutiny affect his demeanor too much.

“Quite the operation,” Rothstein says again, and leaves it at that as he pulls on his gloves.

“An interesting form you’ve chosen for this conversation,” Rothstein’s daemon says to Atarah, voice smooth as silk. “Most your age choose something more... imposing.” There’s a faint twist to the word and Meyer can’t tell if it’s meant to be an insult or praise. Atarah’s claws flex against the stone step, but it’s a small enough movement that she doesn’t appear too ruffled by the comment.

“We’re settled,” Atarah says, and Meyer fights the urge to be defensive about it, about what Rothstein and his daemon might take that to mean.

It pays off; Rothstein’s eyebrows jump a third time, but he stays silent, and his daemon’s head tilts, scrutinizing Atarah even more carefully before she speaks again. “So you are.” She makes a considering noise in her throat, but doesn’t say anything else as Rothstein reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small black notebook.

“Well, Mr. Lansky, it was a pleasure meeting you.” He flips through the book’s pages, then pulls out a small white card and hands it to Meyer. “My number. If you find yourself looking for work in this business of ours, don’t hesitate to contact me.” Meyer nods, and before he can say anything, Rothstein and his daemon are down the steps to get into the still-waiting car.

Atarah picks her way up to Meyer’s shoulder, and he can feel the way the tension’s still running through her; she tucks her tail behind her until the car speeds off, and then curls it around Meyer’s neck, fur bristled like a bottle brush from the adrenaline. He reaches up to smooth her fur down, turning back to the temple doors.

“That went well, I think,” she says quietly, leftover nerves shaking her voice almost imperceptibly, and Meyer runs his thumb along the edge of the card before putting it in his pocket and going back inside. He’s inclined to agree with her. They’re not dead, so that must count for something.

* * *

 

“Who the fuck’s Arnold Rothstein?” Charlie asks the next night, when they’re crowded around a card table in his flat, cards in hand, and Meyer brings up the bar mitzvah.

Meyer sighs and deals, lifting the cards and scrutinizing his hand before answering. “He’s a big name in the craps games uptown. Half the games down here kick up to him too, whether they know it or not.” He raises a brow at Charlie, who’s frowning at his own hand. Not that that means anything—Charlie’s poker face is just a scowl anyway. “Ante up, let’s go.”

“Shut up, Meyer, I’m thinkin’,” Charlie grumbles, but tosses a nickel into the center of the table. “Don’t see why we need to cozy up to anybody in the first place. Ain’t the point of all this that we make our own way?” Oriana huffs her agreement from under the table from where she and Atarah are curled up at their feet.

Meyer puts two nickels in and doesn’t bother suppressing a small smirk as Charlie curses at the raise, but shakes his head. “We need someone backing us, Charlie. If we want to expand we won’t be able to do it alone.” Charlie’s scowl deepens, genuine annoyance on his face. “We _won’t_ , you know as well as I do that people who run games above street level without protection end up dead,” Meyer says, before Charlie can argue. He puts his cards down, already preparing for this to turn into an actual argument. “You’d rather we end up with one of your Sicilan bosses muscling in on our games? Valenti or the other one?”

“ _Fuck_ no,” Charlie snarls as he drops another nickel into the pot, in stereo with Oriana’s growl from beneath the table. “Masseria ain’t coming  _near_ you, or our games,” he bites out, and Meyer shrugs. Bringing up the prospect of a Sicilian backer is a cheap move and Meyer knows it, especially since Charlie’s never given any real explanation for why he hates Masseria so much— that asp of his is reason enough to stay away from him, and according to Charlie he’s got some frankly tribal ideas, but most of the Italians they deal with do, so that can’t be the end of it. But that’s a discussion for another time. Or never. Charlie’s as good as Meyer when it comes to not talking about things. “Draw, asshole.”

“Then we need to impress Rothstein, Charlie. He doesn't have to be involved directly, and by all accounts he seems to prefer the opposite, which will let us operate with a degree of independence we won't be able to get anywhere else.” Meyer surveys his own cards, keeping his expression carefully blank as he does. “Unless you want to go back to selling hats,” he adds wryly, discarding two cards and refilling his hand.

Charlie snorts and follows suit, discarding and replacing three of his cards. “Yeah, ‘cause that worked out great,” he snipes back as he reshuffles his cards in his hand. “If you think this is the right move, Mey, we’ll give it a shot,” Charlie sighs, talking more to his cards than to Meyer, who picks his own cards back up. “Alright, call. Show me what you got, Little Man,” he says through a grin, putting a nine-high straight down, and Meyer rolls his eyes and absolutely does not flush.

Atarah’s weight lifts off Meyer’s shoes, and he can feel her weight flop down a few inches away—presumably more in Oriana’s space this time, and he can hear her murmur “it'll all work out” to the other daemon. Oriana huffs again, but Meyer doesn't hear the shuffling sound that would mean she moved away, and he can feel Atarah’s nerves easing a bit just from being near her, so he lets it go for now.

Meyer quirks an eyebrow, and splays a ten-high flush on the table in front of him. He tries not to smirk too obviously as Charlie curses at him again, and he pulls the twenty cents on the table to him. “It will work out, Charlie. I think this is our best option going forward,” he says quietly. He shrugs again. “Besides, we’ll expand fast. We can’t avoid needing protection early on, but soon we won’t need a backer at all.”

Charlie grunts, but doesn’t argue. Instead he swipes the card deck from the other side of the table and shuffles. “Whatever you say, Meyer. You gonna let me win some of that back?”

“You can try,” Meyer snorts. “Like hell you’re dealing, though.”

“Nuh uh, you stack the deck,” Charlie accuses, flipping the cards through his hands and smirking in Meyer’s direction again. “How else d’you win all the time?”

"Skill, asshole, now hand over the cards."

**Author's Note:**

> for reference:  
> meyer's daemon, atarah, is a [beech marten](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beech_marten)  
> arnold’s daemon, maximiliene, is a [clouded leopard](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clouded_leopard)  
> charlie's daemon, oriana, is a [black-backed jackal](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black-backed_jackal)
> 
> i live for comments, or come talk to me about baby gangsters on [tumblr](http://meyerlansky.tumblr.com)!


End file.
